


To Hearth and Hall

by ShaneAndrew



Series: The Dwarf and the Hobbit [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin survives the Battle of the Five Armies, but Fíli and Kíli do not. He shuts himself away in his grief, and it's up to Bilbo to bring him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Ere Break of Day, written for the prompt 
> 
> "Now you are obliged to find a way for Thorin to survive the Battle of the Armies and have him and Bilbo make up after...."  
> Many thanks to Valandhir for said prompt :)

There was the heady stench of blood and death. There were the shattered shields, the broken spears littering the ground like leaves in autumn. There was the chaos of the screams; the awful, gut-wrenching screams of the dying and those mourning the dead. Terrible and endless, furious and grieving. No one had escaped the battle free of scars, be they on the body or in the heart.

            And then there was nothing.

            It was in this nothingness, in this oppressively huge silence, that Thorin awoke. He knew his wounds were beyond counting; he could feel the hissing burn of each gash as though the blades were still upon him. He felt utterly spent, as though the breath had been knocked from his body a thousand times over. He was disoriented, groggy, struggling to focus through the red haze of pain.

            _Where are the others? Where is my company?_

He didn’t understand. Surely they should be at his side, looking to his example, making sure their king was well enough to lead. He’d expected his nephews to be nearby at least; they had an endearing if annoying habit to cluck over him like broody hens if he had so much as a scratch.

            Surely…surely they had not _forgotten_ him? If they had not rallied to him the moment the battle had ceased, then that meant some other force was keeping them from him. He needed to find them. His work was not yet complete.

            Never for a moment did he consider that they would have their own wounds, their own hurts to tend to. They may have been few in number from the start, but they were fighters to the last Dwarf. It was not possible for any of them to have not made it through as he had. He could not and would not consider the possibility of something so painful.

            Grunting, he braced his aching arms on the cold, hard ground and made to raise himself up. Roiling nausea swirled through his belly in acidic waves, threatening to spill into his sore throat. He paused, panting, willing it to subside. It took the better part of the next few minutes, but finally he managed to get relatively upright without being violently ill. It was certainly a new level of misery for him.

            But he was alive, thank Aulë. He’d survived, and even come through in one piece. Granted it was a rather battered piece, but he’d made it all the same. He’d fought with valor and had done honorably by his people. He’d kept the line of his ancestors unbroken. He and his nephews would be secure for decades of ruling to come.

            Speaking of Fíli and Kíli, he’d decided that he needed to find them first. He needed to discuss the future of the kingdom with them, make sure they were well aware of their duties in the rebuilding of Erebor. He almost chuckled to himself, thinking of how his wayward sister-sons would be sure to grumble at the responsibilities now thrust upon them. He’d raised the two for most of their lives following the death of their parents, and could admit to himself he was looking forward to seeing them grow into this next stage of their young lives. The fun-loving, mischievous adventurers turned princes. _It will be good for them,_ he thought, _and most amusing for me._

But, he had to find them first.

             Pulling himself away from his thoughts, he surveyed the body-strewn landscape. The sun’s dying light was quickly fading; darkness was throwing its star-studded mantle over the world. He could distantly make out some of Dáin’s men, searching for fallen comrades. He tried to call out to them, but all that came out was a hoarse shout that even he could hardly hear. One too many war cries in the heat of fighting had left his throat raw and tender. It would be some long while before he regained his usual sonorous tones.

            Muttering, he took a deep breath and braced his blood-soaked axe on the ground, used it to lever himself onto his feet. His ribs screamed in protest; a dull, white-hot ache indicated that at least two of them were broken. Hissing against the searing scrape of pain, gritting his teeth with effort, he leaned heavily against his weapon as he waited for the world to stop spinning.

            He was glad he’d lived to see the end of this, truly, but damned if he didn’t wish he’d come through a little easier. Movement of any sort was proving irritatingly difficult, and he soon became frustrated by his inability to function at peak level. Limping with all the speed of a glacier, he began to make his way back towards the entrance of the mountain.

            _“Thorin!”_

            He’d barely time to turn and acknowledge the source of the relieved cry, when a burgundy blur nearly took him off his feet. Stifling an oath as a fresh jab of pain seared his insides, he dropped his axe and found his arms full of writhing, weeping Hobbit.

            “Y-You’re alive! Oh, thank goodness!” Bilbo threw his arms around Thorin’s neck and wrapped small legs around his hips. He hastened to bury his face in the shoulder of Thorin’s rent armor, snuggling into the crook of his neck, needing to feel that this was real. That his one and only love was hale and whole.

            And while some part of Thorin thrilled to the feeling of having Bilbo in his arms after such a lengthy absence of touch between them, it was not nearly pleasing enough to drown out the constant throb of his injuries – he’d practically heard his bones creaking past their breaking point when Bilbo had all but pounced onto him.

            Murmuring something in Khuzdul, he pushed Bilbo away from him not unkindly and proceeded to melt back onto the ground. It was taxing, this nearly-mortally-wounded business.

            “Oh dear, I’m sorry!” Wincing at Thorin’s pain, Bilbo stood apart for a moment, wanting to tend to his lover but afraid he’d inadvertently be the cause of more pain. “Where – where does it hurt?”

            Thorin had to fight back a laugh. Oh, but it was just like his Hobbit to sound so timid and innocent, in the aftermath of such wanton destruction. _Much as he was the first time_ , he thought, fondly remembering the night they’d discovered the depth of their connection. That time Bilbo had saved his life and had been endearingly shy about it after the fact. And here he stood again, wringing his hands and worrying at his lower lip, when Thorin knew he would have fought with unrelenting ferocity. His Hobbit was nearly as fierce as a Dwarf when he was roused.

            Smiling through the burn in his chest, he gestured for Bilbo to sit at his uninjured side. Curled his arm gently around the Hobbit’s still-shaking shoulders. Relaxing marginally, Bilbo delicately laid his head again on the Dwarf’s shoulder, interlaced his fingers with those that toyed at his curls.

            “You didn’t answer my question, you know.”

            “Hm?”

            “Where does it hurt?”

            Thorin gave a half-hearted shrug. “Most everywhere, little burglar. You saw how hard the fighting was, know how long it lasted.” He squeezed Bilbo’s fingers gently, working up the courage to ask. “Are you well?”

            For just a moment, the smallest fraction of time, something broken and crestfallen flashed through the Halfling’s eyes. And then it was gone as he buried his button nose against Thorin’s throat.

            “Just – just cuts for the most part.” It took everything in Bilbo’s power to keep his voice from breaking. But he couldn’t tell of his other injuries, the ones inside that made him sick at heart. He was not ready to speak of it, and Thorin was not ready to know.

            Thorin might have noticed, were he not so distracted by scrutinizing the Hobbit for scars or signs of injury. He might have caught the just barely too-long pause before his question was answered, were he not inwardly trembling at the thought of Bilbo in danger.

            He had a gash in his smooth forehead; a thick line of dried blood now adorned his cheek. His curly chestnut hair was filthy and matted, tangled with sweat and dust. Other small scrapes and cuts decorated his face and arms with disturbing regularity. One of his pointed ears was missing a good chunk of its tip; the jagged skin had been clumsily stitched shut and looked to be leaking yet.

            He had a thick bandage just above the bend in his left arm, heavily stained. Upon closer inspection it proved to be the green silk handkerchief Thorin had bought for him in Laketown – Bilbo had always lamented the fact that he’d left his behind when he’d run out his door that long-ago May morning, so Thorin had seen fit to get him another. Now it was ragged and hangdog, gradually going red, held in place by a bit of string the Hobbit had had in his pocket.

            He felt the slow burn of fury well up at his core, thinking of beloved Bilbo in such pain, fighting a war that was not his, far and away from his homeland. He vowed, after he’d found his nephews and set them on their path, he would spend the next few days with just his Halfling. Tending him, healing him, loving him. It was his fault Bilbo was hurt, and he intended to right that wrong.

            Starting now.

            He brought his other arm around with a wince, brushed his rough fingers softly over Bilbo’s cheek. Leaned close and pressed a whispering kiss to the cut in his forehead, lingering as his other hand squeezed reassuringly at the Halfling’s shoulder.

            “You should not have had to suffer this.”

            “No one forced me to come along, Thorin. I chose this journey.”

            “You didn’t know what was in store for us.”

            Bilbo raised his rounded chin, brown eyes bright with defiance. “While that’s true, I most certainly knew what I was doing when I chose you.” He took the hand that cupped his cheek and pressed a hard kiss to the bloodied palm.

            “Do you think for one moment I didn’t know the danger it would put me in, loving you? That I didn’t know where this journey would lead us, the price that’d have to be paid for victory?” Bit by bit his tears were returning, welling wetly before spilling over one by one. “I told you I would help you take back your home, if I could. I meant that, Thorin, so d-don’t you _dare_ tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing. I’ve no regrets, and really, nor should you.”

            Thorin lost it then, all control snapping like twigs in a windstorm. He crushed Bilbo’s lips to his, trying desperately to show the Halfling just how much his unfailing loyalty, his willing heart pierced him through and through. He did not deserve such a depth of love, when he was so cold and ruthless. He had asked far too much of his little lover, and Bilbo had never failed to give back beyond measure.

            His mighty voice broke on a sob as he drew away, and suddenly he was weeping without restraint against the Hobbit’s wine-colored coat. Shoulders shaking, ribs groaning, heart breaking. Bilbo held him fast, murmuring soft words of comfort and rocking him gently.

            It was like this Dwalin found them, his king and kin cradled sleeping against their burglar. He growled to mask the catch in his throat at the sight, hastened forward to check Thorin for injuries.

            “What’s happened? Is he –”

            “He’s resting,” said Bilbo softly. “I found him after Ori finished fixing my ear.”

            Dwalin swallowed hard then. “He’s not without injury?”

            “A few of his ribs are broken, I think. Other than that I think he’s just had one too many hard blows for today.”           

            Dwalin nodded. Broken ribs he could handle. But there was another matter eating away at him.

            “Have you told him?” he asked Bilbo, with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

            Bilbo shut his eyes, jaw clenching. He shook his head.

            “He needs to know.”

            “I couldn’t, not yet. How do you think I felt, seeing him so close to dying again? I couldn’t tell him when he was already so broken, especially since he blames himself for me getting hurt.” He shook his head again. “I’ll tell him, I promise I will. Just not yet.”

            The Halfling looked exhausted, Dwalin noticed. The undersides of his eyes were bruised with shadows and his normally ruddy complexion was tinged with sickly grey. Yet still he held the king, though his arms were beginning to shake from the strain.

            Dwalin sighed, and turned to let out a high-pitched whistle. Balin and Bifur appeared a moment later, looking much older than they had a few days ago.

            “Help me move him,” he said gruffly. “He needs a physician. Master Baggins,” he clapped a hand to his shoulder, startling him. “Get some rest now. We’ll tend to Thorin.”

            “I don’t want to leave him.”

            Balin stepped forward. “Ye’ll only worry him more if ye don’t rest yerself, laddie. He needs to be calm to heal. Ye go’n rest yerself, and we’ll tell you the moment he wakes, alright?”

            Vision going fuzzy for a moment, Bilbo found himself nodding blearily, gently moving aside as the three Dwarfs made to carry Thorin into the mountain. Numbly he followed them, his heart sinking.

            When Thorin awoke he would ask for Bilbo, for all the company so he could tell them his plans for rebuilding Erebor. And Bilbo would have to tell him then, see it break his love to know that the company was no longer complete.


	2. Chapter 2

The company was taking it in turns to watch over their injured leader. Thorin had slept restlessly, tossing and turning, groaning amidst troubled dreams. Never once had they woken him, knowing that sleep would be a powerful restorative in its own right.

            Still, they worried. It was a strange feeling indeed to see one so constantly, solidly stoic brought so low. He’d forever been the foundation, the backbone of their company. Leading, encouraging, sacrificing his own needs for the good of the group. So unwaveringly determined to see them safely through to the end.

            And now it was their turn, for Thorin had never been one to care for himself when others were at stake.

            The sun was shining brightly that morning after the battle, almost in mockery of the suffering endured. But its warm, bright rays could not reach into the hearts of those it touched. There was only darkness there, and would be so for a long while yet.

            Thorin awoke groggily to the quiet murmurings of Bofur and Bifur, standing at the entrance of the tent he now occupied. Dimly he realized he was on some sort of bed, kept off the drafty ground on a simple wooden platform. Dwalin stood sentinel at one side and Ori at the other, clever fingers knitting a fresh blanket to replace the thin unfriendly one currently covering their king.

            Seeing his eyes open, Dwalin crouched down beside the bed. “How goes the mending?”

            He grunted, gingerly pressed at the bandages at his torso. It was a miracle everything was as intact as it was, given the relentless abuse it’d been put through.

            “I’ve certainly seen better days.”

            “You fought like a demon,” Dwalin said, giving his friend a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. “You’re entitled to a good lie-down.”

            “Yes, very well. But I wish to speak to the company, all of them. Bring them to me.” Even gravely injured, Thorin clung to his autocratic demeanor. He still felt compelled to take command; he would not relinquish the weight of responsibility that he wore like a second skin.

            Something in Dwalin’s eyes flickered a moment before he nodded and rose.  He strode over to the brothers outside and informed them of Thorin’s instructions. They shared a wary glance and went to gather the rest.

            Premonition whispered through Thorin’s aching head. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Something to do with the company of his closest friends and allies, the thirteen that had all become like family to him.

            They filed in slowly, in twos and threes. All bore a disturbingly similar expression: Relief at seeing their king awake and stern as ever, mingled with an incredibly heavy sorrow.

            “Where’s Bilbo?”

            “He’s been sent for,” said Balin, not quite meeting Thorin’s eyes. The Dwarves circled the bed, solemn and silent. He greedily raked his gaze over each one, thrilled that they were all alive, and that it was he who had seen them through. But where were his nephews?

            Ignoring the sudden flash of dread in his gut, he addressed those present. “Where are Fíli and Kíli? Off scampering about the halls, I expect. I trust they’ve been sent for as well?”

            A stony, awful silence greeted him as a few shifted uncomfortably where they stood. He felt the dread spark and grow, threatening to swallow him into some evil abyss.

            “Where are they? Where are my nephews?” His voice was colored with urgency, rising in panic. “Has no one seen them? Are they injured? They must be resting elsewhere. I need to go to them.” He made to rise from his bed, only to be pushed back onto the pillows.

            “Thorin, you need your rest.”

            “Damn to my rest! _Where are they?_ ”

            “They...th-they’re dead,” Ori whispered. Tears began to fall onto the wool he clutched to his chest, and he looked frightened beneath his grief. “They didn’t make it.”

            Shock, disbelief punched through Thorin’s chest like a battering ram. _No, it can’t be_. His head was shaking, over and over, beyond words.

            Dwalin moved to put an arm around the younger Dwarf. “They were taken by archers from above,” he growled, not bothering to keep the venom from his voice. “Quick as lightning, or so Master Baggins told us. One moment they’re fighting fierce as ever, trying to get to where you were. And the next…” He stopped short, shaking with the thought of it. “The next a rabble of filthy Orcs rained their arrows down upon them. They were gone.”

            The harsh image of what Dwalin described flashed before Thorin’s eyes, of his precious boys fighting for all they were worth. Staying close by each other as they always had, and seeking him out as they’d so often done for company and counsel. But this time they’d looked for him to ensure his survival, had been seeking to sacrifice themselves if necessary to secure their uncle’s life.

            Oh gods, they’d died trying to save him. He felt nauseous, reeling from the realization of the circumstances. If he had not pushed them so hard, been such an unyielding father, they might have saved themselves. They would be here now, young faces alight with the joy of seeing their uncle alive and ready to begin his rule of their kingdom. Brave Fíli, bright Kíli. Gone forever, and it was all his fault.

            But something else Dwalin had said clamored for his attention, snatched at his rage. He looked up to his silently weeping comrades, saw the way they instinctively retreated at the look on his face.

            “What of Bilbo? What does he know of this?”

            “He saw them fall,” croaked Balin. “He saw them taken down with the bows of our enemies.”

            It was at that moment that said Hobbit pushed into the tent, rubbing sleep from his face. Almost immediately he stilled, feeling the tension in the room snaking its way around those assembled. His gaze connected with Thorin’s, and Bilbo felt an awful sense of foreboding at what he saw in his lover’s eyes.

            “Leave us.” The words were spoken low, touched with the rising edge of a growl. “I wish to speak to our burglar alone.”

            Bilbo realized in that moment, as the rest of the company filed out without meeting the question in his eyes, that Thorin knew. He’d found out that Fíli and Kíli had not survived. He’d told Dwalin that he’d tell Thorin, hadn’t he? It was his burden to bear. Why hadn’t they waited?

            He stood at the foot of the raised pallet, sensing that now was not the time to get close to the Dwarf. His dark blue eyes were bright with the glittering burn of condemnation and betrayal. Of a bone-deep agony beyond imagining.

            “Is it true?”

            Bilbo swallowed hard. “Is what true?”

            “They tell me you saw it happen. That you saw them cut down in battle.” His words sliced through the air, sharpened by pain. “They say you stood and watched as the last of my family was destroyed. Is it true?” The volume of his voice was climbing rapidly, trembling as it did so. “And you thought to make amends by playing the concerned lover when you found me,” he continued before Bilbo could reply. “‘Oh Thorin, let me tend your wounds; after all I _chose_ you and promised to get your home back!’”

            “What would you have had me do?” Bilbo burst out, hurt beyond belief. “I was not near enough to them to help; even if I had been it was over in seconds! There was nothing I could have done!”

            “I would have had your honesty,” he spat. “Or am I not worth that to you anymore? You saw fit to tell the others, yet you would not afford me that same honor.” The bitter derision in his words could have cut glass, and Bilbo felt the wound of it deeper than any of his battle-scars.

            “It is not as you say! They guessed it from my manner; when they asked if I’d seen them all I could do was weep from the pain of the truth. They guessed at their deaths, and went and found their bodies. Have you been so cruel to them?”

            “It was you alone that kept this from me.” Anger was bubbling hotly in his heart, rising fast to an agitated boil. He was shaking, shaking more violently than he ever thought possible. “You alone who sought to deny me the truth.”

            Everything inside of the Hobbit was threatening to crack and shatter. “I didn’t! You were already in so much pain–”

            _“And you think finding out later makes it any easier?”_ he roared. “My nephews are _dead!_ Slaughtered like cattle!” He fisted his hands in his braids, all but tore them from his scalp. “Get out!

            “Thorin, please –”

            “Get out of here!”

            Stunned, choking back a sob, Bilbo covered his face in his hands and ran from the tent. His wails could be heard clearly as he pelted away; it sounded as though his very soul had been wrenched from his chest.

            But the king took no notice. In the private cage of his mind he felt as though the world itself was closing in around him in a rushing onslaught. It was too much, too much. Knowing that he had failed to keep his nephews from the dark embrace of death coupled with Bilbo’s betrayal was far too much.

            And like a curse it came to him again; that same scene of another death that had haunted him since his youth.

            _“We’ve won! We’ve made it.” He slapped shoulders with Balin, raising his newfound shield high in the air. “Look lively, old friend. Moria is reclaimed!”_

_“Thorin…he’s dead.”_

_“What?” Surely, he’d heard Balin wrong. “What did you say?”_

_“Frerin. He…he did not come through.”_

_He’d walked in a daze through the dead, hardly feeling the stream of tears on his scars. He’d seen his fellow soldiers making to carry the body away to be prepared for burial. Screamed at them to leave his little brother be._

_Frerin’s normally jovial countenance had looked much younger in death. There was a spear embedded deep in his chest and the bow he’d been a master with was cleft in twain, clutched tight in his strong fingers._

_He’d fallen to his knees, thrown his body over his brother as though he could still protect him from their enemies. Beat his fists into the ground, cried his pain to the skies until he’d passed out from the sheer exhaustion of grief._

_He’d hardly heard the words of comfort, of condolence at the wake. He’d simply gone to sit numb in the chambers they’d once shared, ghostly memories circling in his head like a taunting facsimile of a dance._

_Frerin had loved to dance, to feast, to sweep pretty lasses off their feet. He’d found his greatest joy in life itself, in all the comforts of hearth and hall. Now life was taken from him, when he’d barely begun to live._

_They’d been best of friends and the closest of brothers. Never could you find one without the other, until now._

            He’d seen so much of himself and his little brother in his sister-sons, right down to their difference in age. Fíli, the elder and heir to the throne, had always been a bit more steadfast, more serious in his manner. He knew what would eventually be expected of him as a descendent of Durin. Kíli had been like Frerin, every bit as mischievous and conniving, always with a grinning face and a ready laugh. He’d even taken up the bow as his weapon of choice, just as Frerin had, and their skill was identical. They were so like what he’d once known, and now he was faced with that same crushing loss all over again.

            Except this time, they’d stayed inseparable. Fíli and Kíli had never left each other’s side, and even in death they would not be torn apart.

            And in the endless fury of his merciless grief, Thorin wondered if he would ever find comfort in that.


	3. Chapter 3

While the king grieved with naught but his thoughts for company the Hobbit was running, running away as fast as his legs could carry him. Desperately seeking an escape from the damage and the hurt he had never meant to cause.

            He couldn’t bear it. The look of agonized disbelief and raging pain on Thorin’s beautiful face had been the undoing of him. The sharp barbs of the words he’d flung like weapons were embedded deep in his heart, tearing at the strata of his soul with every step he took.

            It was in this way, stumbling and crying, the stubby rocks and prickly blades of grass leaving painful imprints on his hairy feet, that he came to the edge of the cliff, looking down on the Long Lake and the ruin that had been Dale.

            It was a stunning vista in the midmorning light, beneath a blue sky dotted with scudding clouds of purest white. The wide and sweeping bowl of the valley, the blue of the water and the multihued green of the bordering forests, the browns and tans of the buildings of Laketown.

            Bilbo could see none of it through his tears, a misty veil that now seemed to keep him separate from the rest of the world. He fell to his knees at the cliffside, all but screaming from the pain of what he’d done.

            His earlier words to Thorin about having no regrets came crashing back to him then, sending a tidal wave of shame through his aching mind. If only he’d told Thorin from the start! Then he would not have had to be shoved away so suddenly, rejected by the one person he cared most for.

            And he hated himself for grieving more over that than for Fíli and Kíli. The youngest of the company struck down in an instant, while he’d simply stood and watched.

            He’d spoken truth when he’d told Thorin that he’d been too far away to help. But now he wondered if he should have tried with all he was to help anyway. Surely if he hadn’t stood where he was and gaped like a fool, kept running towards them instead, he might have been able to do something. At the very least, he could have given his own life to save theirs.

            And that brought to bear a fresh surge of tears; he was sure now that’s how it should have been. He should have been quicker, more caring for others besides his sorry self. He should have seen that Thorin would have been happier to see his nephews live, rather than Bilbo. After all, hadn’t Thorin pushed him away when Bilbo had found him after the battle? He wanted his nephews, not a selfish and cowardly Halfling that knew nothing of the world.

            He curled up on the unyielding ground in the shadow of the mountain, and wept until he had no more tears. He felt hollow, used up, useless. More empty and more alone than he’d ever been in his life.

            _What am I supposed to do now?_

            The answer came to him in a flash, caused a deadly calm to steal over him and quiet his mind. He picked himself up from the ground, dusted off his coat, made his way to the very edge of the cliff.

            He breathed deep, letting the cool air saturate his lungs and brush lightly across his fevered brow. He stood at the edge of the world, tensed his legs, and thought only of Thorin as he jumped. Imagined only his love as he plummeted towards the ground.

            A crash of lightning had his eyes hurtling open and letting loose a strangled cry in the darkened bedchamber; the sound of it high and wild against the low drumming of rain on the window panes.

            Gasping, pressing a shaking hand to his racing heart, he glanced around as he tried to ascertain where he was. The bed beneath him was soft and warm, strewn with thick fur coverings and plump pillows that smelled faintly of a cooling forge in springtime. He could see little by the meager light filtering in from outside; the storm-clouds had covered the moon and stars well this night. Scrabbling at a bedside table for a lamp and matches, he found himself wondering fleetingly if he was back in Bag End, safe and sound in his own bed.

            Setting the little wick to life, he blinked rapidly against the brightness of the flickering flame in an otherwise velvet darkness. Holding it aloft and peering around, he saw that this chamber was not in fact his own – the bed was larger, the walls more bare, and none of his books were to be found. Aside from the bed the table on which the lamp had stood, there was no other furniture in the room. The door was thick pinewood, inscribed with runes along the borders.

            The memory of the confrontation came flooding back to him then. How Thorin had cast him out, thinking Bilbo a liar. How he’d made to run away, but had been stopped by Bofur before he could get very far. “Hush now, shh,” the toymaker had crooned as he’d held Bilbo close, let him sob against his tunic. “I’ve got yeh.”

            He dimly recalled being led to a spare room in the mountain, being told to have a good cry and to rest himself. He must have fallen asleep somewhere between his bouts of grief. It had been the nightmare, born of the impossibly heavy guilt that now weighed on him, that had startled him awake in the dead of night.

            He shuddered as the sensation of falling crept back into his aching head, that rush of air and fearful anticipation of the pain to come on impact. How the earth had seemed to rise up to meet him with incredible speed, opening its gaping maw to swallow up his life as payment for his mistakes.

            Mentally shaking himself, he ruthlessly pushed the hissing remembrance of the nightmare away. He was trying to find something else to concentrate on when a quiet, almost timid knock sounded through the room.

            Warily, he padded over to the door. “Who – who is it?”

            “Ori, Master Baggins. Made us up a nice cuppa and thought you could do with a sip.”

            Bilbo opened the door, revealing the next youngest Dwarf carrying a large tray with a steaming teapot, two chipped mugs and what looked to be a hastily-made plate of biscuits. Ori smiled at him brightly, though his lower lip trembled.

            Unable to tell the earnest scribe that he only wanted to sleep, to be left alone, he moved aside and gestured for Ori to enter. He sidled carefully over the threshold, determined to spill not a drop of the tea nor to let any of the biscuits fall.

            His shoulders shook slightly and Bilbo could see the signs of exhausted strain and grief on his face, but he made no acknowledgement of such as he filled the mugs. He offered one to Bilbo, drank deeply from his own.

            “’s gone eleven,” he said. “Mister Bofur said you’d been out since before lunchtime, and that someone should be checking up on you.”

            Bilbo said nothing, letting the warmth of the tea seep into his hands as he cradled the mug. It was pale with age, and had a crack thin as spider’s silk along the outer edge. The handle was missing almost entirely. Not knowing what else to do, he took a small swallow and savored the familiarity of the soothing drink. He could almost pretend he was home again, away from the mess he’d made.

            He opened his eyes and found Ori watching him closely. “You’re not well, Master Baggins.” It was a statement, not a question.

            “Please, you needn’t be so formal. ‘Bilbo’ is fine.”

            “You’re hurting, because he’s angry at you,” he continued, as though Bilbo had not spoken. “He’s hurting too, I think, because he scared you away. Because he cares for you, Master Baggins, more than you know. He’s just so confused right now, and doesn’t know what to do with the confusion.”

            “There’s nothing to be confused over, Ori. I watched them die and he hates me for it.”

            “No, you’re not understanding. What I mean to say is he loves you every bit as much his nephews, and that’s why he was hard on you. He loved Fíli and Kíli like sons, and they were taken from him. He loves you like a Dwarf does when they’ve found their life-mate – No, let me finish!” He raised a hand to stall Bilbo, for he’d opened his mouth to protest.

            “He loves you like a life-mate, and you _weren’t_ taken from him. Do you see?” He sighed as Bilbo shook his head. “You survived while Fíli and Kíli didn’t. He’s confused because he’s so happy to still have you, while he’s so sad to have lost his kin. He feels guilty for being happy in light of their deaths, and because he thinks it’s his fault they’re dead.”

            “So him screaming at me that I’d tried to keep him from knowing is him being happy, is it?” He gave a disbelieving, mirthless chuckle. “I’d definitely h-hate to see him angry.”

            “He loves you, Bilbo. I know it. And I know you love him back.”

            Bilbo shut his eyes, biting back the swell of pain in his throat. “More than I can say. More than should be possible. Oh gods, Ori, how can I show him? How can I let him know I wasn’t trying to hurt him?”

            Ori was quiet a moment, screwing up his face in thought. What would he do, he thought, if he was in Bilbo’s place?

            “Flowers,” he said suddenly, brightening.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Flowers, Bilbo. Gather flowers to have at the wake. It’ll show Thorin that you care about Fíli and Kíli. And make a special bouquet just for him, he’ll like that.”

            “Are you serious? Thorin, with a bunch of flowers in his majestic halls?”

            “You shouldn’t assume he won’t like them just ’cause he’s a Dwarf,” Ori chided gently. “Why, look at me! I’m a Dwarf and I can admit without shame that I’m rather partial to daisies.”

            Bilbo avoided pointing out that Ori also had a fondness for needlework, which was not exactly a Dwarfish hobby. But as he considered the idea, let it take root, it seemed more and more like just the thing for a lovesick Hobbit to do.

            The flowers for the wake, at least. He was not so sure about the ones for the King Under the Mountain.

            He looked over at Ori to see the Dwarf peering at him eagerly, hoping that Bilbo would like his idea, take comfort from it.

            “Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll knock something together.” He let a cautious smile through. “Thanks for the tea.”

            Ori simply clapped a soft hand on his shoulder and gave Bilbo a gentle look. “Don’t forget what I told you about Thorin. He loves you, and he will remember it before the end.”

            As the scribe took his leave Bilbo moved to the window to stare out at the lessening rain, now more a drizzle than a downpour. And he began to make a plan for honoring the brave brothers and proving to Thorin just how much he loved him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Farewell, Fíli and Kíli. May your memory never fade.”

            Bilbo kept his voice unwavering, steady and gentle as he finished his brief eulogy. He lay a pair of carnations on the coffin, specially widened to accommodate both brothers. The Dwarves simply bowed low, with words stuck in their throats. The soft, sighing notes of a requiem seemed to hang like tears in the air as Bofur’s deftly skilled fingers brushed nimbly over the holes of his flute.

            Each member of the company came forward to offer a bloom of his own, until the polished marble of the coffin smelled like a garden in springtime. And then it was done, the shining case now as colorful as the lives of its occupants had been.

            Doing nothing to stop the steady stream of tears on his cheeks, Bilbo nodded acknowledgment to the company, murmured his thanks for their acceptance of the greenery he’d brought as tribute. Nervously he glanced towards the rear of the hall, where Thorin stood still and silent, blank-faced.

            Suddenly he made to move forward, hands clasped behind his back so no one would see them shaking. His stride was no less powerful than it usually was, despite his healing injuries. His eyes were clear and bright, and for the moment coldly devoid of expression.

            Until he reached the coffin.

            The rushing force of the pain he’d kept at bay for the last fortnight came upon him like a thunderstorm, and his features crumpled as he fell to his knees beside the marble. His great voice rose up in a keening cry, cutting at the hearts of those assembled. One hand came up to cover his face as he sobbed; the other was revealed to be clutching a pure white lily.

            Bilbo’s breath caught. As a young Hobbit his mother had taught him much of greenery and gardening, and of the meanings behind many a flower. The carnations he’d placed on the coffin at the end of his eulogy had been for admiration and remembrance. The white lily now trembling in Thorin’s fist was a symbol of innocence returning to the soul of the departed.

            It brought to his mind how very young the brothers had been; somehow it heightened the obscenity of their deaths tenfold. In a flash he thought of how they’d looked before being placed into their joint coffin: So very young, so very peaceful, and so pale against the dark of their burial garb. Their long, strong fingers had been intertwined and held fast, utterly inseparable. And his heart broke anew.

            He wondered briefly if Thorin was cognizant of the meaning of the flower he’d chosen for his nephews. Then he thought how foolish he was being, when Thorin finally rose and placed the lily at the head of the coffin with infinite tenderness. Of course he would know, for something so close to his heart. And how fitting it was too; for him to be able to lay them to rest with his fond thoughts of them made manifest in a flower.

            _“Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhi,”_ he whispered. _I wish you a safe journey._

            He strode then from the place, unable to bear the reality of his loss. He’d loved them more than life, and now they were lifeless. And because of it he felt dead as well, his heartbeat a mere formality, his still-flowing blood a trivial matter.

            His only thought, as he entered his chambers and lay fully clothed on the bed, was that he would have gladly surrendered all the wealth of his people to have Fíli and Kíli back. If only he’d been as his own brother, and had valued food and song and cheer above hoarded gold, his nephews might be here now.

            But he hadn’t, and they weren’t. So he’d paid the price, said his goodbyes, and fell exhausted into a cold and comfortless sleep.

It would be some long while before he would wake again.

*          *          *

“Thorin?”

            Groggy and with muddled mind, Thorin turned to find the source of the hopeful call. He did not think he was touching the ground, but instead seemed to be floating in a misty, colorless place with no end.

            “Uncle Thorin? Where are you?”

            Again that hesitant call, just on the edge of hearing, quiet enough that he thought he might have imagined it.

            “Hello?”

            “Is that you? We’re scared…” The voice had odd harmonies woven into it, like two voices speaking in unison. It echoed strangely too; sounding first from one direction and then from another. He turned again, seeking what he heard.

            “Where – where are you? I can’t see well enough to find you.”

            “We’re where we’ve always been, Uncle.”

            Brow furrowing, he puzzled over the cryptic phrasing. Struck by niggling inspiration, he looked down at his chest, oddly bare of armor and mourning-clothes; he wore only a rough nightshirt Frerin had had made for him in their youth. Moving slowly, not quite understanding, he closed his eyes and brought both hands up to rest over his heart. And felt the air shift oh so subtly. Hardly daring to hope, he opened one eye fractionally, keeping his hands on his chest.

            A pair of all-too familiar faces were there, shimmering slightly in the gloom. But oh, how they grinned. Purest joy, innocent wonder shone from their eyes as they beheld Thorin. His eyes flew fully open, and he felt a bittersweet catch in his chest as he made to rush forward and embrace them.

            He got to just within arms’ reach, but could suddenly go no further. An invisible barrier, air made solid, prevented him from reclaiming the two to him.

            Fíli smiled sadly and shook his golden head. “I’m sorry, Uncle. You cannot cross the veil to us while you still live.”

            Hope shattered, grating like broken glass in his throat as he dropped his hands. “Why then bring me here?” he asked. “What good if I cannot have you back, if only for my dream-time?”

            “We needed to see you again,” Kíli said softly, gazing with equal parts love and remorse in his dark eyes. “We knew we couldn’t go until we’d spoken to you one last time.”

            “You needn’t go. Stay with me, here in my dreams. Then it would not be so hard.”

            “We cannot. It is not what is meant for us.”

            “You were not meant to die! How can you say you were meant to be taken from me?”

            “We did not say so.” Fíli’s voice was calm, soothing, and Thorin clung to every word. The sounds of his nephews’ voices, though slightly muffled in the mist, were like a clear drink of springwater after a trek through desert lands. “But we are dead, Uncle. We cannot stay here and we do not have much time. We must go, and soon.”

            “Must you? Where will you go?”

            “On,” supplied Kíli. “And so must you too, Uncle. You cannot move on and live your life until we have moved on from ours.”

            “It is not life, what you have left me with. To be without you at my side, to raise and to teach, to impart the old ways and to love as a father must his sons is worse than any death.”

            “We were not all that you have. You forget your Hobbit, who loves you more than his own life.”

            “Bilbo?” The name, and the thought of its owner, sent a silvered barb of pain slicing through Thorin’s chest. “Do not speak to me of the burglar. He lied to me. He tried to deny me the truth of your deaths.”

            They bestowed pitying glances upon him then. “If you truly believe that, Thorin son of Thrain, than you are blind. You see what you wish to see, so you may vent your rage at us being taken from you. You do not realize what you have in Bilbo Baggins.”

            “How can you defend what he has done? He watched you die; he looked on and did nothing!”

            “Think what you are saying,” Kíli interjected gently, eyes pleading. “Bilbo watched us die. He had to see that happen, all the pain and grief and gore of it. Would you berate us so, if the situation had been reversed?”

            “Stop it,” he croaked. “Stop this. Let us speak of happier times.”

            “If we had had to see Bilbo taken down, torn apart by our enemies, would you have cast us out?” Kíli continued, as though Thorin had not spoken. “You do not know the whole of it. Bilbo may not have been able to save us from death, but it is because of him we were able to be buried at all.”

            “I do not understand.”           

            “We fell,” said Fíli, “And not a minute later, Bilbo had on his magic ring and was fighting off those that sought to take our heads. Azog,” he said in response to Thorin’s questioning glance. “He would have cut off our heads and used them as weapons to break the spirit of the Armies, to lead you into the open so he might have your life as well. But up Bilbo came, and stuck his sword right through the Orc’s heart. He was felled and it frightened his minions away long enough for Bilbo to take our bodies, put them in a safe space until after the battle was ended.”

            “You must understand,” Kíli added eagerly. “Even after the pain of seeing us cut down, Bilbo did not think of himself. He sought to make sure we would receive a proper burial and that you would be able to say goodbye. He was so worried upon seeing you nearly fallen that he could not tell you immediately. He wanted you to know that you were not alone before you knew.

            “So he waited, planned to tell you after you’d rested and would be better equipped to deal with the loss. So that he too would be prepared to help you grieve and move past it. You must see that he did not seek to hurt you, or keep you in the dark. He loves you, Uncle; surely you are not blind to that.”

            Thorin simply stared, heart hammering painfully in his throat. This new information, the enormity of what it meant, was cascading thickly through his head and making it ache with the impact of it. He was so confused, so _tired_ , so torn between the agony of loss and the joy of still having someone that loved him with him in his waking life.

            “What am I to do?” he asked, surprised at how uncertain his voice sounded, how small he felt inside. “How do you expect me to move on with this knowledge in mind? There is too much inside me now; I fear I may burst from it all. How can I deal with this and rebuild my kingdom, lead our people?”

            “That’s something you keep forgetting, Thorin. You are not alone, and these things are things that you _cannot_ manage alone. You must reach out, and accept the help of others.”

            “How? How am I supposed to do this? I have asked so much of our company already; how can I do this to them while they still grieve?”

            “Because you still grieve as well, and know their pain.” They reached out towards him, as far as they could before the barrier prevented them. “You know what must be done, and you know also what cannot yet be done because of their grief, because you share in that.”

            Thorin bowed his head, fighting back the wet burn in his eyes. He struggled to keep his shoulders from shaking; he did not want his nephews to see him like this.

            “If you do nothing else for the moment, promise us one thing.” He looked up, tears streaking down his battered cheeks. “Promise us you’ll speak to Bilbo, and make amends with him. Gandalf had the right of it when he said that he had more to offer than any of us knew. He can help you heal, help you move on. Promise us you’ll at least try.”

            “Will you stay if I do?” He spoke now in desperation, somehow knowing that their time together was drawing rapidly to a close. “Please, I’ll do anything you ask, just stay with me. Fíli, Kíli…please. Please do this for me.”

            Tears ran down to dampen their beards. “We cannot, though it hurts us to leave.” They began to fade, and Thorin shook with fear. “Promise us, so we can rest peacefully.”

            “I promise, I promise. Don’t leave me; please, please don’t leave me like this.” But they were gone, and Thorin felt the whispering brush almost of cheeks pressed to his own and the fleeting pressure of a heartfelt embrace.

            The mists were swirling closer now, neither cold nor warm, neither damp nor dry. They simply closed in until he could see and hear nothing, and felt the odd sensation of falling in slow-motion. And one last word, sliding through his clouding consciousness as he drifted away.

            _Goodbye._

            And then he was staring at the ceiling of his own bedchamber, dimly lit with an oil lamp and smelling oddly of springtime, though the Mountain was being quickly enfolded in winter’s shroud.

            He rolled to the side, mourning the loss of his dream and the last encounter with his nephews. And froze as he saw the figure curled in a hard-backed chair, watching him with deep, abiding love written plain as day across his round features. Seeing that the Dwarf was awake Bilbo shifted; uncrossing his legs and leaning forward to give Thorin his full attention.

            “We need to talk.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Hobbit had obviously been sitting in his curled position for some time; Thorin could hear his bones creaking and joints cracking as he unfolded himself. He stretched his arms above his head, wincing a little at the soreness in his muscles.

            Inwardly trembling, he squirmed a bit under the Dwarf’s arrested expression. He had gone utterly still the moment he’d clapped eyes on Bilbo, and the Hobbit knew quite well how sticky this situation could potentially become. The silence stretched out, neither of them sure of their place.

            “I brought flowers,” he finally blurted out. “For you. Flowers for you. I, I, I thought they might be…nice?” He faltered. Clamming up, he scooted to the chest at the foot of the great bed, gathered up a huge bouquet in his arms.

            If Thorin’s eyes had gone wide upon seeing Bilbo waiting for him to wake, it was nothing to the way they popped at what seemed a meadow’s worth of riotous blossoms all but obscuring the Halfling’s upper body. As he adjusted to the shock and began to notice the types of flowers present, he felt fresh tears well up in his heart.

            Goldenrods, for treasure and good fortune. Irises, for valor and friendship. Forget-me-nots for memories, peonies for healing, tulips for a declaration of love.

            And purple hyacinths, symbolizing a plea for forgiveness.

            Swallowing hard, he pushed himself to sitting as Bilbo timidly lay the flowers by his lap in the great bed. Their myriad scents mingled sweetly in the close air of the room, swirling about him and soothing the ragged edge of his sorrow. But the Hobbit quickly retreated back to the chair, though he was clearly still very much invested in – and anxious about – what would happen in the next few moments.

            His nephews’ words came back to him then about the lengths Bilbo had gone to to protect them even in death, the mortal danger he had put himself in for their sake. _Azog_. He’d destroyed the giant, Gundebad Orc, and spared him further grief. He might have even saved Thorin’s life in the process, by a roundabout path.

            All this passed through his head in less than a moment, along with his promise to honor Fíli and Kíli’s last wish: that he make peace with their burglar.

            His musings were interrupted by the timid clearing of the Hobbit’s throat.

            “We – we need to talk, you and I. There are things I need to say to you and things, I am sure, that you wish to say to me.” When Thorin continued to stay silent and still, tension evident along every line of his body, Bilbo felt his resolve begin to crack. “Please, Thorin. I know you’re not the happiest you’ve been with me, but I am trying to make amends. Please say something. Anything.”

            “I had a dream that unsettled me beyond speech, I’m afraid,” he managed, still staring very hard and, unless Bilbo was very much mistaken, with a great deal of fearful uncertainty at him.

            “Your dreams, they trouble you,” Bilbo murmured softly, one corner of his lips almost quirking upward at the memory. “Tell me of it, then. Of your dream.”

            Thorin did not miss his own words on the Halfling’s lips. How he wished things were so simple as that long-ago night, when they had discovered each other.

            He took a deep breath, and shuddered on the exhale. “They came to me, to say goodbye. Looking just as they did in life.”

            “You saw Fíli and Kíli?”

            He nodded, closed his eyes to try and recapture the image. “Aye. I know not where we were, a place between this world and the one after, I suppose. They appeared to me and I made to go to them, but something I couldn’t see separated us from each other. They spoke to me of their passing and of your part in it.”

            Bilbo shrank into himself, feeling shame’s sting crawling hotly through his body.

            “They tell me that you slew Azog after they fell.”

            His brown eyes snapped fully open and he looked warily at Thorin, shock coursing through him. “How – how could they know of that? They’d been pierced by so many arrows, and they were so still when I got to their side I thought them already dead.”

            Thorin almost smiled then; again his Hobbit showed such naïveté despite his warrior’s deeds. “Arrow wounds rarely kill on first impact, Bilbo.”

            “I still couldn’t have prevented it; I _couldn’t_ have saved them. I wanted to, you must believe that. But by the time I got past the shock, got to their side, I already thought them gone. But I still tried to do _something_. If you can’t find it in your heart to forgive me, I can accept that. What I won’t accept is sitting here and l-letting you tell me that it’s my fault they’re d-dead!”

            The Dwarf winced guiltily as the harshness of their initial confrontation came flooding back to him. It had not been one of his finer moments.

            “That being said, there is something else I need to say to you.” He took a deep, ragged breath, and then another. “I’m _sorry_. Gods above, I’m so sorry, Thorin. I did not want them to die, and I won’t pretend I miss them more than you do but I thought my heart bled a bit when I realized they’d gone.” His voice shook with the vivid memory of crouching over their bodies once he’d hidden them, of saying their names over and over again as he pushed at their bodies. The way his head shook over and over, of the way he’d sobbed the moment he knew they were dead. The pain of seeing the others realize what had happened when they’d asked after the youngest of their company.

            “I was going to tell you; you have to believe that.”

            “I do,” he blurted. “They told me.”

            Bilbo’s brow furrowed as he brushed at his welling tears. “How…?”

            “I do not know how they knew. ‘He wanted you to know that you were not alone before you knew’, they told me. But you must understand how it looked to me at the time, Bilbo. All our company gathered before me save my nephews and yourself, and no one telling me where they were. When I pressed for information, Ori let slip and Dwalin told us that you’d seen them cut down. They knew not of your saving their bodies; that you took down Azog in the process. To me it seemed you weren’t present because you were still trying to keep me from knowing. I knew not you had planned on telling me that day.”

            “Thorin, I’m so sorry. I only did what I felt to be right, and –”

            “Hush, Bilbo.” Thorin almost reached out a hand, then seemed to think better of it. “You said your piece, let me say mine.” His hand fell instead to absently stroke at the petals of a hyacinth.

            “Why is it,” he mused aloud, “That you and I seem to always be at odds, until something dramatic happens that causes us to pour out our hearts? Can we not always have such open honesty between us?” He ran a hand through his hair. “You cannot imagine the relief I felt when I saw you alive and whole, the fear in my heart when I saw the injuries you’d sustained on account of my foolishness, the rage of fury that took me when I thought the one I loved most had betrayed me. I’ve never had the best of handles on my emotions, so I tried to keep them to myself for fear of scaring you off.

            “The day I found out that my nephews were dead, I think I wanted to scare you. Even in the midst of all that anger, I wanted to show you that I am a dangerous Dwarf to love. I was – I _am_ in agony over Fíli and Kíli’s death, so instead of waiting around for you to leave me I pushed you away. To protect you from my lack of control.” He shut his eyes, locked his arms about his knees in a surprising gesture of vulnerability.

            “And if you hate me for that, if you c-cannot find it in your good heart to forgive me my damnable foolishness, I…I will not press my suit. You will – you _are_ free to return to your home, in the Shire. You always have been.”

            Nothing was said for several long minutes, and Thorin feared the worst. He heard a small sniff, and looked over to see the Halfling pressing his worn, bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. His eyes had fallen shut, and glittering tears fell steadily down his cheeks.

            _Please, please don’t leave me,_ he thought frantically. _Don’t take away my last reason for living._

            And then Bilbo opened his eyes, stood and crossed to him in his bed.

            Unable to meet the Dwarf’s gaze, he gathered up the flowers again and held them out. Waiting and wondering. Offering and pleading.

            The King Under the Mountain thought of his nephews and of their sacrifice to ensure he lived on. He thought of all the plans he’d had to restore the life to the halls and the hearth that were his birthright. He thought of the remarkable, courageous Hobbit that stood before him now, and how he’d never felt more alive than when they were entwined in each other’s presence.

            Only a great fool would deny himself this last chance at life.

            He hesitated for a split second, then closed his hands around Bilbo’s on the stems of the bouquet. They exhaled in a simultaneous rush of relieved air, and finally let their eyes meet, earthen brown to sapphire blue. Enduring love to eternal acceptance.

            Another heartbeat passed, and then they fell into each other’s arms weeping. Heartache and heartbreak, sorrow and regret, forgiveness and love swirled about the pair as they held fast, riding out the storm. The flowers were pressed between their chests, the petals’ sweet scent softening their grief, making it bearable. Connecting and intertwining and fusing their souls.

            They stayed like that for time uncounted, grieving together and rejoicing also, for they’d found each other again when they’d never been farther apart. The chasm was crossed, the misunderstandings laid to rest.

            Eventually they came to be sitting side by side, arms locked about each other and hands clasped about the blooms with fingers twined together.

            “The lily you chose for the coffin,” Bilbo asked quietly, head resting on the Dwarf’s strong shoulder. “You knew well what it meant, didn’t you?” Thorin nodded, once up and once down, pressing his lips to the shell of the Halfling’s ear. “And the way you looked at the flowers I’d brought for you said you knew of them, too.” Again, the nodded confirmation.

            Bilbo gently touched a tulip, marveling gently at its soft resilience and vibrant beauty. “I’d no idea you were so knowledgeable about such matters.”

            Thorin smiled with tired eyes. “Gandalf will surely be smirking when I ask him to pay up.”

            “Hm?” Bilbo shot him a questioning glance. “What on earth are you on about?”

            “We had a wager, the wizard and I, before even we left your hole in the ground to begin our quest. He could see I was instantly smitten with you, and bet that if you were to ever woo me in return I’d not be able to see it for what is was, as Hobbit courtship and that of Dwarves tends to differ vastly. So I made a study of the language of flowers, after questioning Gandalf as to what Hobbits consider to be tokens of love and devotion.” He selected a forget-me-not from the bouquet, traced it lightly over Bilbo’s lips.

            “Memories,” he said, then gently replaced the petals with his own lips, equally soft. “So many fond memories I have of you and I, my dear Hobbit.”

            “And may there be many more, in the days to come.” Bilbo smiled and kissed him back.

            They fell to sleeping then, resting their hearts and their bodies for the healing and rebuilding to come on the morrow. Not all was well, not yet. But so long as they had each other, they could make it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason I didn't want to do a utopian, "They're-together-again-so-everything's-beautiful" ending to this fic is because it -isn't- all beautiful. They still suffered a terrible loss in Fíli and Kíli's deaths, and making everything seem roses and sunshine would be disrespectful of that loss.
> 
> Grief is very much a process, and never resolves quickly. That said, I hope you found the ending I chose to write satisfactory and that it provided some measure of closure for you.
> 
> SA


End file.
